


The Perfect Tree

by Gallavich_Kismet



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Cutting, Domestic Gallavich, Endgame, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:04:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallavich_Kismet/pseuds/Gallavich_Kismet
Summary: Set after season five, except Ian never broke up with Mickey, Sammi basically doesn’t exist, and Mickey never went to jail.  This is the Gallavich I think we all deserve.Ian always wanted to cut down his own Christmas Tree. Mickey decides to surprise him.





	The Perfect Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

The alarm’s incessant buzzing made Ian groan in aggravation. He clumsily reached an arm out from under the comforter to grab his phone and hit snooze, silencing the piercing sound.  Briskly dropping the phone back down on the nightstand, he brought his arm back into the cocooned warmth of the comforter and reached over to bring Mickey closer to his body, but sadly his hand fell flat onto the emptiness of Mickey’s side of the bed. Ian cracked open an eye to confirm the empty spot and reached over to grab Mickey’s pillow, hugging it close to him as if it were Mickey himself, burying his face into it and breathing in deeply that smell that was distinctly Mickey. Ian would never get enough of that smell.

“Hey Sleepyface, get the fuck up.” Ian felt something plush bounce off the back of his head, no doubt a rolled up ball of socks.

“Hmmmm. Mick, get the fuck back in here. Just a little bit longer. Come on.” Ian rolled over, still clenching Mickey’s pillow to his chest and opened one eye minimally. “Well aren’t you mister morning today. What the fuck Mick. Why you up?” Mickey was standing in the doorway,  dressed and ready for the day in jeans and a hoodie, and a black winter beanie on his head. He was in mid movement of pulling on his winter parka and paused to look at his red headed idiot. _His._

“Come on man, get up. We got some shit we need to do and the day ain’t getting any younger.”

“Hmmmm…just five more minutes. I’ll get up in ten more minutes tops. Ok? Just fifteen…” Ian’s muffled mumbling faded to nothing more than a silence followed by the lazy swishing of the duvet as he pulled the comforter up over his head and settled back down into the comfort of their queen sized bed.

Mickey looked at the familiar blanket covered lump in their bed and his heart clenched. He took a deep breath. Since Ian and Mickey had rented their own place on the South Side about a year prior, everything was as well as it could have been. Ian had finally gotten a handle on his meds, and once he was stable the two of them had come to a realization.  Instead of Ian feeling like he was under constant surveillance by the doubtful eyes of his siblings, who were basically waiting for his next manic breakdown, and instead of Mickey living in the shithole house of horrors where every corner, every crevice, every stain, every hole in the wall oozed ugly memories, they decided to take the hand they were dealt and fucking try it somewhere new. Some place that was just them. Somewhere they could be free. So they pooled their money, got a shit apartment and some “new to you” shit furniture from the goodwill store, and made themselves a fucking home. It wasn’t much, but it was fucking theirs and theirs alone. And things had been good. Until Thanksgiving.

***

Sure, Ian seemed off. He usually was off around Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was a reminder of Monica. Of what she tried to do.  A reminder of what she passed in her genepool to Ian. Ian always had a tough time around Thanksgiving. And leading up to the holiday, he was behaving typically—nothing too out of the ordinary. Maybe a little quieter than usual, but Mickey was on high alert and hyper vigilant to any behavior out of the norm, but was trying to do so without being so obvious, or so he thought. Apparently, Ian was fully aware of Mickey’s constant questioning and his hyper vigilance, and misunderstood Mickey’s care for extreme judgement. Ian was feeling like he was a chore to Mickey, feeling increasingly paranoid as more time passed, afraid Mickey’s resentment would grow into an unbearably sized tumor that would fester until Mickey ultimately could take it no longer, give up and walk out. Little did they both know, Ian’s medication was no longer correcting his chemical imbalance and was in need of tweaking. But, being too focused on trying to figure out if the other was ok, they did not recognize what was really happening.  By no mistake of their own, they were solely focused on each other in a way that made the real problem slip in unnoticed.

Ian’s paranoia was getting the better of him, and he was quiet about what was going on. He didn’t want to make Mickey any more worried or hear empty words of reassurance that Mickey wasn’t going anywhere. Ian could see the toll he was putting on Mickey, making him worried, making him feel like he had to be babysat. Ian was convinced in his mind that Mickey would leave him and the thought of it gave him a dull and unbearable heartache.  His heart was breaking before anything was even happening and fuck if Ian had never felt anything like it. It was an enveloping, deep pain that he couldn’t get rid of because it wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t like he could put a Band-Aid on it to make it feel better.  The only thing he could think to do to help dull the heartbreak he was feeling was to inflict actual physical pain to himself, to mitigate this feeling of heartbreak that wasn’t even real, but Ian believed to be inevitable.  Give himself a pain that could be cleaned and mended.  So that is what he did. He’d find instances here and there to quietly slip away, to any place where he could find a quick, private moment to help numb the heartache, making small cuts to his skin. A focus for his pain. A distraction.  It was becoming too much for him and he was losing control on the inside, but the cutting was giving him a semblance of control on the outside.

Mickey was oblivious to what was really going on. Looking so intently for the usual signs of Ian being off, specifically him oversleeping or being hyper-active, he was missing the smaller signs of the bigger issue, such as Ian always being fully clothed, always with long sleeves or pants of some sort. Mickey thought nothing of it because he knew the drill with Thanksgiving. Ian could be a little standoffish and not in the mood, so he never pushed him to fool around. It was the usual Thanksgiving drill. And Mickey thought nothing of it. So in turn he didn’t see the fresh and neatly lined up cuts on Ian’s upper inner arm and his upper inner thigh. He didn’t see these cuts starting small and few but increasing in size and number as the days led up to Thanksgiving. But then Mickey finally figured it out, on Thanksgiving morning no less, before they had to go over to Fiona’s.  That was when Mickey saw for himself.

They were both rushing around, trying to get ready to go to Fiona’s but rushing because they also had to swing by the airport to pick up Mandy – why she would have decided to fucking travel on Thanksgiving morning was beside the point –   _fucking Mandy_. Mickey was aggravated at his sister and having to rush for the Gallaghers and Ian was misinterpreting Mickey’s aggravation as him being disgruntled at Ian. Mickey had snipped a couple times at Ian, not thinking anything of it and Ian in his own head was being supersensitive and thinking everything of it.  While Ian was dressing, Mickey was showering and had hopped quickly out, leaving the shower running, only to rummage through the vanity drawers in search of a razor to shave but wasn’t finding any. So, in haste he grabbed his towel to wrap around himself and made a quick trip to the bedroom, only to walk in on what could only be described as sheer heartbreak incarnate.  There Ian stood, in an unbuttoned collared shirt over a white undershirt and boxers, one foot up on the bed, gripping a box cutter blade that was in mid cut on the soft flesh of his thigh, and in barging in on him, Ian startled and cut deeper than intended.

“Shit…” Ian hissed as the searing pain resonated down his whole leg and up to his groin simultaneously.

Mickey stopped and with eyes widening in fear and nervousness resonating in his voice, he quietly spoke.

 “Ian, what the fuck man? What are you doing to yourself?”

Ian, in a rush to stop the bleeding grabbed the closest thing he could find which were the pants he planned on wearing that day and he quickly tied them around his thigh and held the loose ends to the cut to stop the bleeding. He then sat on the edge of the bed, continuing to apply pressure, looking down at the floor, unable to meet what he imagined to be Mickey’s disappointed gaze but was in fact one of pure worry and extreme care.

“Ian. Look at me.”

Ian looked up at Mickey, tears filling his eyes and quickly looked back down, not being able to bear what he thought to be disappointment in Mickey’s eyes. Again, something that was only in Ian’s head.

Mickey walked over and sat next to him on the bed, reaching up with his hand closest to Ian and grasping the back of his neck. Massaging it gently, Mickey leaned into Ian, leaned his forehead against his ear, nuzzled his nose into the side of Ian’s head and continued to grasp and massage his neck, perhaps too tightly, but neither were making mention of it. Mickey breathed in deep, breathing in what was essentially the essence of the love of his life, and sighed ~~,~~ as he searched for the right words. His voice low, he pulled Ian’s head in close to his, close to his mouth, as if he was trying to push the words in as deep as they possibly could go. “Ian.” Mickey pulled him in even closer. “This isn’t you okay? This isn’t you. This is the disorder.  The cutting is not you. And it’s not helping anything. This pain is temporary. You are trying to make these cuts quick fixes.”

At that point, Ian had started to cry, still not having looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening.  Mickey continued, his voice growing hoarse.

“You listen to me ok? This is all temporary. This is the bipolar messing with you. These cuts do nothing. The pain you are feeling, the control you are trying to have through the cutting, it’s all in your head Ian. You don’t need to do this. It isn’t you. I know you are hurting. But give me your fucking hurt.” Mickey pulled him in closer again. More desperate. More frantic. “You hear me Ian? You give it to me. You don’t fucking do this to yourself. I’m here. Me. I’m permanent.”

Mickey continued grasping Ian’s neck but pulled his face away, willing Ian to look up at him, look into his eyes, which he eventually did. Tears streamed down Ian’s face, as if he was letting every last bit of hurt out of himself. Mickey took a deep breath and got up and began pacing.

“We’ll give the doctor a call—”

“Mick no! They’ll make me stay. They’ll make me stay there because of the cutting. I don’t want to. Please don’t make me, I don’t want to.”

“Ian, we need to go. It will only be a few days. You can handle a few days. You’re a fucking tough guy. You’re my fucking tough guy, Ian. They’ll talk to you ~~,~~ and adjust your meds and you’ll be ok. You can’t not go. Something’s not right—”

“You mean me Mick! You mean I’m not fucking right. I’m fucked Mick. Completely fucked—”

“Shut the fuck up Ian – it’s not you. It’s the chemicals in your brain that are fucked. Something you have no control over when they decide to go out of whack, but what you do have fucking control over is fucking recognizing it’s not you and that you can gain control back by medicine. And routine. NOT by fucking hurting yourself.” Mickey stumbled over those last words as he walked back over to Ian and sat down again leaning his head against Ian’s to whisper in his ear. “It’s not you Ian. Ok? We can fix it. Together. Ok? Please. Let’s go. Me and you. Its going to be alright. We got this. I fucking love you ok. Let’s go make this better. No more cutting alright? I fucking need you. I need you to be here and I need you to be ok. Can you do that?”

Ian’s eyes were closed, and he nodded and gave pause, as if he was absorbing Mickey’s words and plea. Ian sighed, letting out a labored breath, heavy with everything that was inside him. “Yeah Mick, ok. Let’s go.”

***

Mickey looked at the familiar blanket covered lump in their bed and his heart clenched. He took a deep breath. He remembered back to that day. Remembered Ian’s doctor willing to meet with them that morning. Ian being admitted to the ward for seventy-two hours because of protocol in cases of cutting. Remembered those days and following week sitting in on sessions with Ian and the doctor, listening to Ian’s fears about Mickey leaving. About Ian’s worries that Mickey saw Ian as a problem and his fear of Mickey’s growing resentment. Mickey remembered his heart breaking in that room, listening to Ian, knowing he would never do that to him but not being able to reassure him, at a time when Ian was hurting most. Mickey remembered the doctor tweaking Ian’s medications and talks of side effects including lack of libido and fatigue. That was all two weeks ago and fuck had it been a long two weeks. Some good days, some bad. Ian’s frustrations and fears of not fulfilling Mickey’s needs. Ian’s frustrations with not being able to do what he needed to get ready for Christmas, too tired to go shopping or do his usual decorating with the tree and stockings and shit—things that Mickey never really got used to growing up, never really understood, nor realized he gave a shit until he noticed them missing. Ian fucking loved Christmas. And the past two weeks, there was a huge lack of holiday spirit. And Mickey wanted nothing more than to get Ian back, to see his spirit back.

If there was one thing that Ian had consistently talked about at Christmas time for as long as Mickey had known him was always wanting to go somewhere to cut down a fucking Christmas tree. He wanted to go out in the fucking forest or some shit and pick out a perfect tree and each year it never happened. With a lack of vehicle, and being in the city, there was no way to make their way out to a tree farm and cut one down to bring back. Also, Mick thought it all sounded pretty gay. But fuck it. If Gallagher wanted to fucking cut down his own tree, this was the year. Mickey was going to make it happen. He had it all planned out. If he could only get Ian to move his ass out of bed.

Mickey walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Ian was completely cocooned up to his chin in the comforter, his face barely peeking out, his hair a bedhead mess, sticking out in a million directions. He was snoring lightly, the asshole. He could fall asleep on a dime and sleep through the apocalypse if it was happening in the same room. Mickey looked at Ian, at his smoothed and calm brow, his peacefulness, his mouth slightly parted. He reached out and lightly touched Ian’s forehead, brushing some stray strands of hair away and stroking across his head to behind his ear. He held his head, brushing his cheek softly with his thumb. Ian stirred and without opening his eyes leaned his head and nuzzled into Mickey’s hand, smiling softly.

Mickey took a deep breathe, trying to catch it, because his heart felt like it was in his throat and ready to explode. He didn’t think it was possible to have any more love for Ian, but as he sat there, in that single quiet moment, looking at him, touching him, he realized it was infinite. And coming to that realization, he couldn’t catch his breath. Mickey let out a quiet, whispered, “Ian.”

“Hmmmm. Hi Mick.” Ian’s eyes were still closed and he was still nuzzling into Mickey’s hand. His whispered hello went straight to Mickey’s heart and Mickey let out another labored breath. It was unnoticeable to Ian in his half asleep stupor, but Mickey was sitting there trying to pull himself together. He could feel his chest constricting. Could feel his eyes filling. He had to get away before Ian saw. He didn’t want Ian to misinterpret anything he might see on Mickey’s face or deep in his blue watering eyes. Mickey quickly stood up and turned to walk out of the room and threw out in an unwavering tone as much as he could muster, “Let’s go Gallagher, times a’wasting. Get the fuck up. I’m bringing you somewhere.  Borrowed Fi’s car for the day.”

At that last statement, Ian shot up to look at Mickey, who had already exited, making his quick escape to pull himself together before Ian saw. Ian yelled out for Mickey to hear, wherever he was in the apartment.

“You got Fiona’s car? How the fuck did you swing that? Not how, but…how? You actually asked her if you could borrow the car? And she actually said yes? Where the fuck are we going that we even need a car? What’s going on?”  At this point Mickey had pulled it together and walked back in the room with Ian’s snow boots.

“Listen, are you just gonna sit there asking a million fucking questions or are you gonna get your ass up?” Mickey tossed the boots down at the foot of the bed.  “Dress warm, we’ll be outside,” he added without fanfare. “I’ll meet you at the car, going to have a smoke.” And with that he walked out, leaving Ian looking confused but getting him to start moving nonetheless.

***

Mickey breathed in deeply the nicotine to calm his nerves.  He was pacing out in front of their apartment building, blowing the smoke out into the cold, frigid Chicago winter air. He was nervous as all hell. Nervous that this wasn’t going to work.  All he knew is that he would never stop trying to make Ian happy. It would pretty much be his life mission from here on out. He never wanted to walk in again on the scene he walked in on. He never wanted Ian to feel like he had to do that to himself, ever again. He knew this wasn’t going to be the one thing that did it, and he knew he wouldn’t always be able to protect Ian from himself, but fuck it if he wasn’t going to try.

Ian came hopping out of the apartment and down the stairs, seemingly more energetic than he had been in the past few weeks. He seemed excited and it warmed Mickey’s heart. He was ready to do this.

“Where we going Mick? I seriously cannot believe you got the car from Fi. This is like really blowing my mind.” The car had been warming up while Mickey had his smoke, so it was pretty toasty and comfortable when Mickey made his way to get in the driver’s side and Ian hopped in the passenger seat. He was visibly excited, almost like a little kid on Christmas.

“Calm your tits, Freckles. I just figured we could take a little ride up north. Go to that Christmas tree farm you’re always fucking talking about every year.”

“You serious Mick? We going to cut down our own tree??”

“Yeah man. We’re gonna be gay as shit and go cut down a tree. Axe is in the trunk. You down for that?”

Ian was looking at Mickey with the biggest grin. Mickey turned to glance at him ~~,~~ as he took the exit onto the highway. Mickey couldn’t keep up the hardass act, even if he tried. Not with that fucking smile beaming at him. Mickey smiled back before turning frontwards again.

“Alright, alright Joker. Fucking find something good on the radio. It’s gonna be a little while.”

Ian just kept smiling and started fiddling with the radio dial. Mickey’s heart felt full. And fuck if Ian’s excitement wasn’t full on contagious.

***

Mickey and Ian had been walking for what seemed like an hour. Mickey kept his complaints at bay, because this was for Ian. If he wanted to be a picky bitch about the perfect tree, he was going to let him be a picky bitch.

Mickey was finishing the last haul of a cigarette and tossing the butt aside when Ian let out a little shout. “I think that’s it Mick!” Ian’s eyes lit up and he quickened his step leaving Mickey behind.

 _I think this is it._ Mickey thought to himself.

Ian made his way over to the tree, which Mick had to admit was pretty perfect. And watching Ian excitedly go to the tree to investigate—well fuck if it wasn’t the cutest thing Mick had seen in a long time. Ian practically skipped up to the tree, started feeling its branches, checking for dryness, reaching up his arm to compare the height to make sure it would in fact fit in their small place, smiling ear to ear, big wide puppy dog eyes. There was that spirit, that light that had been lacking the past month.  Mickey didn’t realize he had stopped in his tracks about ten feet back to really soak in the sight.  His eyes filled up at witnessing the pure happiness that he hadn’t seen in a while.  He watched as Ian made his way to the back of the tree, talking about how perfect it was.

 _You’re perfect._ Mickey thought to himself.

“Do you think this is it Mick?” Ian’s voice sounded slightly muffled as he investigated the back of the tree. “I think this is the one, Mick.”

“I think you’re the one.” This time the thought was said out loud. Ian chuckled behind the tree, brushing it off and made his way back towards the front. “Stop being fucking weird Mick, this is it. You got the axe?” Ian turned to retrieve the axe from Mickey’s outstretched hand and instead was greeted with an image that made his heart jump a thousand feet and then some. Mickey stood in front of him, somewhat sheepishly, extending out his hand which was holding a small black box.

“Mick…” Ian barely got the word out. His breath caught in his throat. He was unable to move.

“You’re the one Ian.” Mickey, who was looking down at the ground, brought his eyes up to meet Ian’s and seeing the look on his face was all he needed to throw away any sheepishness and gain the confidence he needed to do what he was about to do.

“You’re the one,” he said more strongly. He took a step forward.

“And I want you to know this and get it in your head permanently. No more of this doubt Ian. Get it through your ginger fucking skull.  I won’t let you doubt us anymore. I won’t allow you to hurt yourself like that ever again Ian. I am never going to fucking walk out on you. You are never…NEVER a fucking burden. Do you hear me? Never. You are it Ian. Me and you. In it until one of us is cold, dead and buried, if you’ll fucking have me til then.”

Mickey was so wrapped up in what he was saying, in how deeply he was feeling, he didn’t notice that he had dropped the ring box and had made his way over to Ian. Grasping at Ian’s jacket, fists full of the heavy fabric. Grasping at Ian almost desperately, willing him to understand, willing him to take his words and lock them in and never let them go.

Mick moved in hands up to Ian’s neck, running his fingers through the little hairs and tucking them under his winter beanie.  He brought his thumbs forward to swipe at the tears streaming down Ian’s face.

Mickey’s gaze fell to Ian’s lips and back up to his eyes again, which were squeezed shut as the tears poured down.

“Ian.” No one else would have heard it if anyone else was around.  Ian opened his eyes and drew in a breath, attempting to stop the tears. He looked at Mickey with so much hope and love in his eyes. Mickey knew this was it.

“Ian,” he said quietly again. “Will you fucking marry me?”

Ian laughed wetly through his sobs. He brought his lips to Mickey’s forehead. Kissing him, breathing him in.

“Yeah Mick. I’ll fucking marry you.”

 

 


End file.
